Love Can't Be Wrong
by SlthrngNbltyWrtnINnk
Summary: My name is Hermione. I fell in love with him, married him, had children with him, and died holding his hand.


We knew they what we had wasn't perfect, but we also knew that we would both be willing to do anything to make it last.

What we didn't know, though, was what brought us together. It could have been the strain of the upcoming war. It could have been the need to find comfort and love. Or it could have been that we were both sick and tired of everybody being in our busy, and we needed something that nobody knew about, except us.

That's what we gained. We received peace of mind, at least when we were together. We received comfort and love, first through lust, then through the heart. We received privacy.

We had made an agreement. We would fight on whichever side we chose, but he was not to kill Harry, or any of the Weasleys. I was not to kill his parents. We could not kill each other. An agreement we could both live with.

Both of us knew they Harry would win. Voldemort would lose, and when whe did, we would come out into the open about our relationship. That's what we did. Some people turned away, some people wished us their skeptical luck, but most were just too tired and busy grieving to care.

Our wedding was, small, to say the least. I manged to convince most of the Weasleys to attend, except Ron. Harry came, but that took a lot of begging.

His parents came, surprisingly enough. Pansy tried to break into the wedding, but failed miserably thanks to George. Merlin bless him.

Overall, the wedding was very beautiful. Mrs. Weasley and Mum cried. Lucius sat stone faced they whole time. Narcissa refused to look at either of us. Harry sat with tight fists, and didn't take his eyes off of my new husband the whole time.

Our wedding night, he made the sweetest love to me that he had ever made. The joy of it made me cry. We just held each other close, for hours and hours, again and again, until we finally fell asleep in each other's arms.

Nine months and nine skipped periods later, I gave birth to the most beautiful baby boy ever. Light brown, peach fuzz hair, and gray eyes, and the smoothest, creamiest skin I had ever seen. His father cried, and I smiled.

By the time he was five, I became pregnant again. We were all very excited. I did everything like I was suppose to, and I just knew that this baby would be as perfect as our first.

I was already four months into the pregnancy, when I woke up one morning and I knew something was wrong. There was this pinprick-like pain in my lower stomach, and I had spotting.

We immediately went to St. Mungo's, where, two hours later, they told me that I had lost the baby. I had cried harder than I had since the war. My heart broke for my unborn child.

The pain never really went away, but it did become easier to deal with, with time.

Once our son was eight years old, I became pregnant again. I was scared. Very scared. What if I lost this one too? We debated on what to do, or rather I was torn and he kept telling to that our child would be just fine.

Throughout the whole pregnancy, I did everything with the utmost caution. I thought that the stress, and fear would possibly make me lose my child, but I was wrong.

Within nine months and ten days, out gorgeous baby girl came into the would. She was her brother's opposite. She had my brown eyes, and her father's light blond hair. She was just as perfect as her bother.

Our children grew up, we grew old, and everything was grand.

Our children gave us children, making us grandparents.

I was the first to go. I had looked into his eyes, and I had thanked him for being there all of those years. The last thing I heard him say, was that he loved me, and always would.

It's funny really. Who would have ever though that him and I would come together the way we did, much less last? Oh we were so very much in love. Not ever did I regret loving that man, and he never regretted loving me.

Our lives were never slow paced. From the war, to telling our secret, to getting married, to having a child, to losing a child, to having another, and to death.

My name is Hermione. I fell in love with, married, had children with, and died holding the hand of Draco Malfoy, my best friend's sworn enemy. Is that wrong? How can love be wrong?


End file.
